


apricity

by weatherzane



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Judas AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherzane/pseuds/weatherzane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn and Harry are in a biker gang. Harry belongs to the gang leader. Zayn is Harry's Judas. Americana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	apricity

**Author's Note:**

> "apricity" is an archaic word meaning "the warmth of sun in winter." the poem is "kindness" by sylvia plath.
> 
> (my tumblr is notafraidof, come talk to me!)

They have the afternoon together. It's a rare thing, being able to stand together in broad daylight and not have to put on that painful mask of brotherhood, to pretend that their lips don't long for each other. In all honesty, Zayn feels a bit off-balance, a little dizzy, knowing he is able to see the subtle shades in Harry's eyes without straining at all.

They spend the first hour together just kissing, just running their hands over one another, just _feeling_. They don't get to do this often enough--usually they rush to finish, so if anyone came barging in (like Louis, looking for the other sock in his pair, or Niall for his sunglasses) they wouldn't see much of anything.

But today, Zayn can absorb every shift of Harry's leg against his, every push of tongue against tongue, every hitch of Harry's breath as Zayn rubs gentle circles into his bare hip, shirts tossed to the floor already. Today, Zayn can take his time. He can enjoy himself.

He sits up, smiling at Harry's confused whine. He pecks Harry's nose and says, "Don't worry babe, not goin' anywhere," and reaches to pull the blinds up.

Sunlight floods the dingy motel room, revealing the floating dust motes, causing Harry to blink and squint, nose scrunching up. Zayn slides back down to cradle Harry's head in his hand, to push his hair aside and press his lips against the pale skin of Harry's neck. He can feel Harry's pulse kick up, both in his jugular, where his lips are puckered, and where their chests are pressed together. The ends of his mouth perk up as he moves down to the hollow of Harry's throat, nipping just hard enough to make Harry's hands twitch where they're resting on Zayn's shoulders.

"Not that I'm complainin', babe, but… what're you… _oh_ \--what're you doing?" Harry breathes, a small broken whimper slipping out when Zayn starts suckling on Harry's left nipple, one hand drifting over to rub slowly at the other. Harry's hands comb restlessly through Zayn's hair, as if asking for something more, but unsure of what _exactly_ he's asking for. Zayn closes his eyes, just breathing in the warming air. The sunlight filtering in through the filthy window is serenely warming his back, the nape of his neck, his arms. He feels time flowing, slow as molasses, as he looks up at Harry through his lashes, and sees the flush climbing down Harry's throat, a rose flush blooming against his porcelain skin.

He pushes himself further down the bed, briefly licking at Harry's right nipple before smearing warmth over Harry's cool stomach. He can feel the muscles jumping under his lips, and smoothes his hands up and down Harry's sides, nails raking softly against his ribs. It doesn't slow the pace of Harry's breathing, but Zayn can hear a quiet huff of a laugh, and it makes him smile.

There's an easy familiarity about how their bodies move. Zayn presses kisses to Harry's shoulders, inner elbows, fingers, belly, thighs, knees, all the while murmuring tender nonsense that still manages to tint Harry's cheeks with mild heat. Harry bends and sways with Zayn's advances, folding himself into the shape Zayn needs.

After Zayn has given affection to every part of Harry's body (except feet, neither of them are into that--and his dick, because they would both get too distracted), he slides, sinuous and undulating, back up to Harry's face, and buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck, pressing him into the mattress. He feels tears pricking behind his closed eyelids but forces them back.

Harry's hands are drifting over Zayn's back, head tilted to the side so Zayn has easier access to his neck. Even if Zayn wasn't lying on top of him, he would have found it hard to breathe. Zayn loves him _so much_. Zayn cares for him, Zayn would fight for him. Harry digs his fingernails into Zayn's back, leaning his head against Zayn's and trying so hard to keep his breathing even.

Of course, Zayn notices. Of course he does.

"What's wrong, babe?" He rumbles, right behind Harry's ear. He swallows, squeezes his eyes closed. Saying things aloud is a shared difficulty in their band of misfits. So he reverts to poetry they both know, pushing his fingers up through the hair on the back of Zayn's head as he slowly recites:

_"Kindness glides about my house._  
_Dame Kindness, she is so nice!_  
_The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke_  
_In the windows, the mirrors_  
_Are filling with smiles."_

Zayn stills above him; Harry can _hear_ the confused eyebrow knitting. But, after a pause, Zayn adds the next bit:

_"What is so real as the cry of a child?_  
_A rabbit's cry may be wilder_  
_But it has no soul._  
_Sugar can cure everything, so Kindness says._  
_Sugar is a necessary fluid,_  
_Its crystals a little poultice._  
_O kindness, kindness_  
_Sweetly picking up pieces!"_

Harry's breathing is pretty much back to normal, but he can't stop hugging Zayn closer to him. He continues:

_"My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies,_  
_May be pinned any minute, anesthetized._  
_And here you come, with a cup of tea_  
_Wreathed in steam._  
_The blood jet is poetry,_  
_There is no stopping it."_

And, with a shared breath, they finish together:

_"You hand me two children, two roses."_

Zayn sighs, a heavy thing, that presses Harry a little further into the bed. He rolls off to the side, but instantly turns back and drapes an arm over Harry's chest, fingers idly tracing the birds shadowing his collarbones.

There's such a weighty shadow in Zayn's eyes, and Harry cannot stand to see it. Zayn deserves to get out of his head, to have the chains tying him to his inner demons broken, to have a comrade to help ward off the darkness inside of him.

So he sits up, grabbing Zayn's hand and tugging them both out of bed--much to Zayn's distaste and confusion. He digs out a clean shirt, one that has the sleeves ripped off, and tosses it over his shoulder to Zayn; he opts for a long-sleeved, pale yellow v-neck. He can feel Zayn's eyes on him as he ties his hair back in a bun, and braces himself for the inevitable…

Zayn presses against Harry's back, arms winding around his waist and forehead resting on Harry's shoulder. "Where're we goin'?"

Harry smiles despite himself, nudging Zayn off so he can pull on his bike boots. "Nah, 's a surprise." He narrows his eyes when he sees Zayn's fingers start to twitch. "No cigarettes in the motel."

With a huff, Zayn runs a hand through his hair, his half-formed quiff floating to the side. His expression softens. "Just… wanted to stay with you today."

"Well, good thing you're coming with me here, too, then!" Harry beams. He grabs Zayn's wrist--even that small point of contact bleeding warmth and buzzing electricity--and rushes out the motel door.

Zayn shares Harry's bike for the ride, arms locked tight and safe around his waist. Harry loves this, the rush of speeding down an abandoned highway, paired with the solid, living warmth of Zayn melded to his back.

There's a small park near the edge of town--Harry had noticed it when they drove in, but didn't tell anyone. He'd kept it a secret, so he could reveal it now. It has an aura of that particular brand of desertion which includes preservation, down to the last detail. The birds, the trees, the rusting swingset, are all the same from day to day, month to month, year to year--though of course, Harry doesn't know this. When they breathe in the deathly perfume of age-old leaves, they both shiver.

Harry breaks the silence, his soft voice sounding thunderous when compared to the gentle sounds of nature carrying on its way. "If you wanna smoke, you can." His voice holds no judgment, his eyes unfocused and far off, as if he were already miles away. Zayn presses his lips together and nods, unseen; he taps a cigarette against his tattooed knuckles, already fidgeting in anticipation of the calming smoke.

Harry wanders over to a particularly ancient tree, Rorschach patterns and swirls gnarled into the bark, fashioned over centuries of patience and determination, slow growth and plenty of sunlight. His fingers dance over the damp moss sharing this precious space, skirt around the trail of little black ants marching up the trunk, up, up, up, to some faraway destination.

Zayn watches the clouds as he puffs, creating his own miniature fog, pulling it from his mind and watching it float away, dispersing like fine morning mist. He imagines his troubles, his anxieties, the sharp-fanged fiends that haunt the corners of his thoughts are fading away with each exhale. He knows, objectively, that he's ruining his lungs. But his life is already so fucked up, what's one more hurdle to jump? And he doesn't smoke all the time; he limits himself, draws lines, makes conditions for himself. Though it is so hard to deny Louis when he holds out his open lighter, dancing flame lighting up the expectance in his face, sharpening the hollows in his cheeks, a living reaper.

When it feels like he cannot take another breath, Zayn grinds the fag out under his heel, watches the tobacco shards splinter out from under his foot, feels the extinguishing as if he were putting out his own internal flame. He forces himself to take a deep breath: in, two, three, four; hold, two, three, four, five, six; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. He turns to see Harry gazing up into a tree's limbs, leaves dappling his face with strange-colored shadows, throwing his cheekbones into sharp relief.

Zayn has to remember to exhale.

He walks over, barely feeling his legs move, focused only on the explicit openness of Harry's face. He reaches out, brushes his fingertips against the cross tattoo on Harry's hand, just firm enough that it breaks the spell.

Harry blinks, turns to look at Zayn, mouth slightly open. Zayn's stomach flips, and he swallows, eyes magnetized to Harry's full lower lip.

They kiss.

They kiss, and the chattering squirrels skitter across branches dozens of feet above them.

They kiss, and they can hear cars passing on the road, but for all they can see, those cars are just figments of their imagination, placed there to complete an atmosphere of humanity, when really, it's just them. Only the two of them, and the jabbering squirrels, and the throaty songbirds, and the scores of trees.

Zayn kisses Harry, and forgets that they're both too fucked up to live out their lives together. He forgets about Taylor, he forgets about Niall and Louis and Liam and his bike and the rumble of the road. All he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears and the nearly inaudible, aborted moans Harry's trying to hide.

His heart's in his throat, and he knows he'll cry. But he doesn't care. He doesn't care because he's kissing a beautiful boy who's kissing him back and their passion is all that matters right now.

They pull apart, eyes glassy and lips bruised-red. Harry's tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, Zayn pulls his own in between his teeth.

Just then, an acorn falls on Harry's head, dropped by a squirrel who is, frankly, _furious_ that Harry's head dared to interrupt its acorn's falling process.

Zayn can't help it. He laughs.

He laughs, and his laugh echoes through the trees, startling birds into flight.

He laughs, and Harry joins in, the dappled-green light bouncing off bright white teeth and deepening the dimples Zayn will love to the end of time.

Zayn reaches out and taps the side of Harry's face, gently, oh so very, very gently, so soft that he barely feels the contact. Harry leans into it, eyes fluttering shut, as Zayn murmurs, "This. I like this." Harry makes a questioning sound, eyebrows furrowing without opening his eyes. Zayn leans in to kiss the wrinkles away, and explains with an audible fondness, "Your smile in the sunlight… I think I'm addicted."

Harry's face falls a little, and Zayn's stomach lurches. They both know why he shouldn't have said that.

Harry reaches up to keep Zayn's hand in place, presses a feather-light kiss to his palm, then drops their hands altogether. He starts walking back to the bike, back to their forced charade, the same old dance. Zayn grabs his wrist, desperate to stay in their sacred forest for a few minutes longer, to stay in the light of day for just a few more moments, one more kiss.

Harry's hand clenches to a fist.

He doesn't turn around.

Zayn lets his hand slip through his fingers.

The moment is gone, and the sun slips behind a raincloud.


End file.
